


Capacity for Wonder

by dewinter



Category: Weekend Update (SNL)
Genre: Clubbing, Established Relationship, M/M, Married Couple, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 16:16:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4794059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dewinter/pseuds/dewinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Stefon eats breakfast – Pop Tarts, some days; cold fries, others – standing up by the kitchen counter in a tiny leopard print robe trimmed with pink ribbon.</i> </p><p>*</p><p>In some ways, life with Stefon is everything Seth imagined. In other ways, it's really, really not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Capacity for Wonder

I.

Some things go just as Seth imagined they would.

Stefon eats breakfast – Pop Tarts, some days; cold fries, others – standing up by the kitchen counter in a tiny leopard print robe trimmed with pink ribbon.

He still uses Seth’s full name, even though they share a surname now. _Seth Meyers, come back to bed / Don’t worry, Seth Meyers, Man-dra Bullock made the Civil War reenactors promise they wouldn’t bring live ammunition to BALONEY / Fuck, Seth Meyers, keep doing that, keep doing that, oh my_ God _._

Sometimes, when he gets in at 4am, wired and open-eyed, Stefon watches old _X-Files_ episodes on VHS to get to sleep. He keeps the sound off, in case he wakes Seth, but one night Seth rolls over and wakes and Stefon’s propped against the headboard with his arms around his knees, mouthing along to the dialogue, his face flickering blue.

Seth learns quickly to give Stefon three hours’ warning whenever they’re going out, because that hairstyle takes just as long as you might expect to perfect.

Seth still says, five or six times a day, with various levels of long-suffering frustration, Stef _on_. 

He’s an absolute liability when they go out together. Seth only has to take his eye off him for a split-second, and he’ll be off into the crowds, arms flailing, blowing kisses. He’ll reappear eventually, eyes wild, wide, usually with his shirt tacky with spilled drinks, reeling off starry, mystic stories about conquistadors and yoga instructors and Joey McIntyre and midgets in deep sea diving gear and bored teenage movie ushers.

He’ll paw at Seth’s chest and whine _where did you_ go, _Seth Meyers? Stefon_ missed _you,_ and Seth will shake his head in fond despair and bundle him into a cab. Rinse and repeat. The bassline never stops thrumming. It’s in his blood now.

II.

Other things are less expected.

Whenever Stefon mentioned Bark Ruffalo, Seth imagined something fussy, yappy, small enough to be tucked under the arm and trussed in rhinestone collars – a chihuahua or a dachshund. In reality, Bark is a huge, slobbery, lazy mongrel of a dog, an undistinguished sandy colour, with a dopey grin and an unerring ability to find – and roll in – the deepest, smelliest puddles. He loves Stefon and _hates_ Seth. At least for the first fortnight of their marriage, until Seth picks up his favourite treats from the bodega down the road, and all is forgiven.

Stefon sleeps like the dead. There’s no twitching, no sudden awakenings, no Donald Duck Vietnam nightmares. He clamps an arm across Seth’s chest and stays there, warm and solid and gently breathing against Seth’s side, until morning, when Bark wriggles up the bed and throws himself down on their tangled knees.

(What Seth doesn’t know is that it takes Stefon by surprise, too – he used to wake up nearly hourly, cold and sweating, heart-racing, sheets twisted, and now – now, he _doesn’t_.)

Stefon is _obsessed_ with dental hygiene. Seth isn’t sure quite why this is surprising to him, but it is. Stefon’s state-of-the-art electric toothbrush has its own charging station on the dresser, between his phone and the rechargeable butt plug he bought Seth for his birthday (yet to be used, but they’re working up to it). There’s a whole crate of hairsprays and gels and mousses in the bathroom cabinet, which is par for the course, but there’s also a whole crate of floss and mouthwash and interdental brushes next to it. Seth comes to love the taste of Listerine.

Stefon makes a really decent chili. It’s weird, from a guy who seems to subsist primarily on gummy bears and Kraft mac and cheese. He says he picked up the recipe down at the Port Authority blood bank from a bodybuilder who looked like a young Rush Limbaugh, whatever that means, but by that point Seth’s too busy stuffing his face to even question the story.

Stefon has an actual _son._ His mother is mid-90s country singing sensation Winona Judd, and his name is Aaron. _Winona wouldn’t let Stefon name his own son, awwwww,_ Stefon says, mock-aggrieved, stretching out his hands for sympathy. Stefon sees Aaron twice a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays, without fail, no matter how wasted he got at the Belle and Sebastian DJ set at Smorgasbord the night before, and he makes Seth wait six months before meeting him, because _Stefon doesn’t want Aaron’s life to be a parade of strangers, don’t take it personally, Seth Meyers._

Seeing Aaron’s fat little face light up when he sees Stefon, and seeing Stefon throw himself down on the carpet among the Lego and half-chewed rusks without a shred of concern for his Armani jeans makes Seth feel secretly pretty shitty for assuming Stefon would be anything but a wonderful, attentive parent.

III.

It’s not just Stefon who’s surprising, though. Seth takes himself by surprise. 

Yes, the leopard print robe is _ridiculous,_ but it just skims the top of Stefon’s thighs, and sometimes it gapes open when he leans across to grab the Nutella, and there’s this wolfish part of Seth that awakes – yearns – reaches out. Takes, hot and hungry against the kitchen counter, his mouth on Stefon’s unshaven jaw. Stefon is laughing – giggling, really – and trying to keep the edges of the robe together, saying _Seth Meyers, my Pop Tart is getting cold_ , and gasping, his eyes screwed shut, and Seth is so, so turned on, which probably shouldn’t be as surprising to him as it is.

There’s this possessive part of him too, long dormant. It rears its head on the street, his hand reaching for Stefon’s. Walking Bark, Stefon in short shorts and a bicep-baring vest, Seth in shades, pulling Stefon down for a kiss on the cheek while the city thunders by.

On red carpets, his arm around Stefon’s waist, beaming so hard it makes his face hurt. Anderson is there, sometimes, and Seth can tell when he’s close, because Stefon – subconsciously, maybe, maybe not – arches his neck and glances over his shoulder ever more lasciviously, speeds up the bat of his eyelashes, and Seth tightens his arm and turns his head to growl promises into Stefon’s hair.

 _I’m gonna take you apart later,_ he hisses – he barely blushes, these days – and that’s all it takes for Stefon to turn his attention straight back to him, eyes gone in a flash from sultry to excited. _Mine,_ Seth thinks hotly, _mine mine mine,_ his fingers hooked in Stefon’s shirt, tight enough to leave bruises, tight enough to reach right through the skin and flesh and take hold of his ribs.

His impulse control is _fucked,_ lately. Truth be told, it’s been fucked since he struck up a conversation with the spaced-out, nervy guy on the stool next to him at his usual breakfast diner, and halfway through a mostly one-sided discussion about the various cereal-based cocktails to be had at some place called Shower Curtain, heard the words _hey, buddy, fancy coming on the show some time?_ fall out of his mouth.

It was fucked when he went tearing out of the studio with his heart in his mouth and his stomach churning at the thought of Stefon explaining Hoombas to anyone but him. It’s fucked now, still, whenever Stefon arches his eyebrows up high and says, _come_ on _, Seth Meyers, you’re too wholesome, Stefon will look after you, promise, cross my heart._

Seth likes dancing, these days.

He likes lying in bed until noon, not saying much, letting Stefon poke him in the shoulder occasionally, and running his fingers through Stefon’s sleek hair just so Stefon will bat his hand away, _stop it, Seth Meyers, you’re too naughty_.

Seth likes letting Stefon choose his outfits.

Seth likes Jamba Juice and three-hour Beastie Boys remixes, these days.

Seth likes the feel of a cock in his mouth. If he’s being honest, he’s known that about himself for a while, at least since Model UN his freshman year of college. But he _especially_ likes the feel of Stefon’s cock in his mouth, and Stefon’s hands in his hair, and Stefon’s thighs shaking.

Seth likes being with Stefon, likes his shambling, bouncing walk, likes his Carpenters cassettes stacked up on Seth’s mantelpiece, his black, blown pupils, his legs thrown over the arm of Seth’s couch. His lurid shirts and his flitting hands, his dog’s hair all over Seth’s apartment, his collection of broken-down lava lamps and his encyclopaedic knowledge of Brazilian soccer, circa 1995-1998.

Seth isn’t sure if all of that’s surprising, or not. It might be that it's surprising that he feels so _much_ for another person, or it might be that he’s feeling it for _Stefon,_ every waking, every sleeping hour.

Or it might be that it’s not surprising at all: that actually, everything’s panned out exactly how it was always going to, right from the day when Seth was heading out for another day of pitch meetings, and Stefon was dragging himself back home from a 72-hour rave at Moist, and they ended up sat next to each other, ordering, respectively, a short stack with blueberries and a quadruple shot caramel latte with a shot of ground cinnamon on the side.

Who knows? Seth’s pretty baked right now, and his husband is licking crushed-up Skittles from his stomach, and Seth loves him so, so much, and he’s more or less certain his capacity for wonder has been increasing, not diminishing, ever since that morning.   

  
  



End file.
